


Her Province

by Black_Hole_of_Procrastination



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 14:22:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7318735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination/pseuds/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is hers, along with all the rest. </p>
<p>(Another ‘what-if Quentyn wasn’t barbecued AU’)</p>
<p>Originally Written for the 'Seven Hells' Game of Ships Challenge</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Province

Quentyn wakes shivering, his teeth clenched tight within his head. He cracks open one sleep-crusted eye and sees the cause: Dany has pulled the bedclothes entirely to her side.

Quentyn smiles.

She is as much a conqueror in sleep as she is in her waking hours, claiming every inch, every fur, every bolster she can.

He had not minded so much in Meereen, when the nights were warm and they slept with the windows unshuttered, the evening breeze carrying in the smell of the sea and spices from the markets below. But here, in this hellish, frozen keep, it is another matter.

Quentyn allows himself a moment to think longingly of Dorne. Of sun and sea and lemon trees. There are some days he nearly succumbs to these thoughts and goes to saddle his horse to ride as far south as south goes.

Were he a different man, then perhaps, but it is honor that tethers him to this miserable place. He has a duty to his father. To _her_. He cannot fail again.

He steals another look at his queen.

She is curled in a tight ball, one hand fisted in the furs that are tucked around her chin, her face slack with sleep. She looks so small here in their bed, like a girl not a queen.

Quentyn wonders if this is what she was like before, when she wasn’t a Khaleesi or Breaker of Chains or any of the rest.

He sometimes thinks that is the true reason she is always grasping and scrabbling for _more_. That her need to own, to take, is less to do with rights and more to do with being that lost, friendless little girl wandering the world without a home. The Beggar King’s sister.

Quentyn does not know what it is to have nothing. He was born a prince. He has never known want. Perhaps if he had, he could better understand why it is she so fiercely seeks to claim the world for her own.

Outside the wind howls sharp and swift against the walls of Castle Black, shaking the wood slat shutters and seeping into their tower room. Even with a fire lit, the cold is too much to bear.

Quentyn reaches for Dany, dragging her bodily across the mattress so he might share her warmth. He has been burned by dragons before, but with her, he’s willing to risk it. She begins to stir.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs into the crown of her head, tucking the furs around them both. “It is not yet day.”

She does not answer, only stretches and squirms until she’s half thrown over his body, her face pressed into his neck.

She is as greedy with him as she is with the bedclothes. She clings to him, arms wrapped round his middle, lily white manacles that bind him to her side. Her lips sear into the skin of his neck hot as branding irons. She possesses him completely.

One day, perhaps a day not far off in the future, she will take another into her bed. Someone who has more to offer than an army half a world away, and a house divided by his father and sister’s schemes, and a scarred, broken body. Mayhaps it will be some comely lordling or knight or perhaps even her long-faced, Stark nephew. Whoever it may be, it is a certainty Quentyn has grown to accept.

For now, he will give her what he can.

It is all hers for taking. His name. His fealty. His men. His spear. His life.

He is hers, along with all the rest.


End file.
